Shiredaughter
by Aerlinnel
Summary: In which the parentage of a certain Hobbit maid is explored, and the author's angst-faucet is finally turned off (well, turned down to a drip, at least. Perhaps I've a preoccupation with death. I don't know.) *Re-uploaded to remove an irrelevant review


Oh, I am _so _bad. *Rails at self: "Is nothing sacred?!"* :-| I have nothing against Sam, honestly. I love Sam. But hasn't anyone else ever wondered…?

"[Elanor] became known as 'the Fair' because of her beauty; many said that she looked more like an elf-maid than a hobbit. She had golden hair, which had been very rare in the Shire, but two others of Samwise's daughters were also golden-haired, and so were many of the children born at this time."

-_The Tale of Years_, Appendix B

It seemed to Rose that the Sun set more quickly nowadays. But that was just as well, she thought philosophically, since she had little to do anymore that depended on the Sun – little more at all, in fact, than lying propped in her bed, revelling in visits from her children and grandchildren, or watching fondly as her Sam pottered around Bag End, trying to do all the things that go into managing a household. It had proved too much for him to handle, though he gave it his best, and Elanor, now a mother herself, had returned from Undertowers with little Elfstan to help take care of her parents.

Her darling Elanor…Rose slowly turned her head to watch her daughter busy in the kitchen, and marvelled again at her golden beauty. She remembered how Sam had gawped at the baby when she was born, pronouncing her "the beauti-fullest maidchild to ever grace a hobbit-hole, and no mistake!"

Rose had only smiled privately, and said nothing. Sam did not know about that day, only a month or two after their wedding, when he had been away from the Shire and she had been strolling aimlessly by the Brandywine. She had decided that the froth on the river looked just like the foam atop the rich malts that her dad favoured when a sudden prickly feeling of being watched overtook her. She turned quickly, half-expecting to see some shy child peeping out of the bushes nearby.

A tall creature stood under a stand of trees near the river. His hair glowed gold, and his eyes shone with a light like the Sun. Rose had never seen an Elf, but there was none other that this could be, from what she remembered of Sam's tales. She understood now his awe when he talked of them.

They stood looking at each other for a time, stilled into a tableau. At last the Elf spoke. "I am Túrcalë Erdewë." His voice was like music, sweeter than birdsong. He tilted his head curiously. "You are…a Hobbit?"

Rose dropped an automatic curtsey. "Rose Gamgee, sir. A pleasure it is to meet you."

He smiled then, like a summer flower opening. "Likewise, Rose, fair-spoken one. Are all Hobbits courteous as you?"

Rose's eyebrows rose. "I should think so, sir," she said awkwardly. "I'm none special."

Var, but that smile was captivating. "Are you not, lovely Rose?" The Elf was smoothly and silently before her, though she had not seen him move at all. He knelt, still smiling, and kissed her.

It was an inquisitive kiss, little more than a shared breath at first, and Rose would hardly have been aware of it had her eyes not been wide and staring straight into his. She moved nervously within the circle of his arms. "Sir…" she began.

"Túrcalë, _carnelotë_. Túrcalë."

"Túrcalë," she repeated, and as she said his name all of her qualms seemed to melt away. He tasted like a brook under the stars, and his hands were lighter than the touch of early-morning mist in the fields. She smiled back up at him.

It had seemed hardly more than a dream when it was over, and though she found herself with child soon after – well, it could just as easily have been Sam's. But that lovely hair…and blonde children had earlier been one in a thousand in the Shire, and now there was a sudden crop of them, it seemed. Their mothers shared secret glances, remembering the taste of silver and moonlight, and were agreed tacitly among themselves that what their husbands did not know would not hurt them.

At the least she didn't have those sharp-pointed ears. Rose laughed softly at the thought.

Elanor heard the sound and came quickly to her side. "Are you well, Mother? Do you need aught?"

So refined she was, speaking like a proper court lady. She seemed little more Rose's daughter than Sam's, at times, and Rose gave a gentle inward sigh. "No, love, but thank you." And even if it _was _her more elegantly-spoken blood telling, it could be ascribed to her years as the Queen Arwen's maid of honour.

The memories slipped back to her again – she spent more and more time in memories lately. The starlit night when she had wandered from Bag End, strayed into the nearby wood, and heard Túrcalë's voice beneath the trees: he did not show himself, but he sang to her, a sweetly sad song of an Elf who had looked to quell his curiosity about Hobbits and found instead a love who was already claimed. Rose sat at the foot of an ancient oak, listening to the music wrap round her and caress an ache that she had not been aware of having.

Had it not been a dream, then? She had no proof to the contrary save for Elanor, and even that was no proof, for two more of her daughters were golden-haired, and they were both certainly Sam's children. Yet Elanor…there was something about Elanor that was of a sphere beyond the Shire. She was more slender than other Hobbit-maidens, and her feet were smaller, and she took great delight in the Moon and stars, where most Hobbits gloried in the warm Sun.

Rose's reflections were interrupted by the arrival of Sam – he was as much as blown through the door in a stream of sunlight, bearing a handful of roses. "A regular gale it is out there!" he called to her as he shut the door, his eyes sparkling.

He laid the flowers on her breast, then drew the quilt up snugly about her, knowing well that she felt the cold even in the midst of summer. She watched him as he dotingly tucked the blanket in; he had weathered the years better than she – which was only sense, she supposed: he who had faced strange and dark lands would scarcely be so vulnerable to such a little thing as age. It was for her sake that he had refused an eighth term as Mayor, deciding instead to stay home and help her with the housework that she had been increasingly unable to manage. His sweet, caring face hovered above her now as he asked if she needed anything, as Elanor had only a short while before. "Must I always need something?" she returned with a flare of her old spirit.

He became good-humouredly apologetic, and she smiled as he sat beside her and took her hand. "Dear Sam." She would miss this: the warmth and love that filled this hole, that filled her life, and she said as much.

His face grew distressed. "Whist about that, Rosie. Don't speak of that."

The undiscussed topic had become a silent presence in their lives of late, and had had only the effect of lending a deeper appreciation to even the smallest things – a smile, a touch. Now, though, she felt as if she needed to bring it up, to ensure that important words were not overlooked. "You need not fear it, Samwise Gamgee," she admonished, "for I hope that you shan't be overly long in following me."

He squeezed her hand. "I'll certainly try, Rose Gamgee, so long as you don't leave me before you absolutely must." If there was a crack in his voice, he disguised it admirably.

Elanor came quietly to the bedside. "Supper is ready, Mother. Will you eat?"

She had taken it upon herself to endeavour to tempt her mother's appetite with delicate and creative concoctions, but Rose had found the idea of eating more and more tiring recently. "I'm sure it's lovely, darling, but I'm not hungry. Forgive me."

Instead of returning to the kitchen, Elanor approached to kneel opposite Sam. "Do not apologise, Mother," she said softly, clasping Rose's free hand.

Rose's eyes closed. She felt as if she were in a cocoon, a warm cosy place surrounded by love. It did not matter, after all, whose daughter Elanor was. Sam was her father, in all the ways that mattered, and her presence would comfort him greatly in the days to come.

"Mother?"

With an effort, Rose opened her eyes again. "Why, are you crying, love?" she murmured, surprised.

Elanor shook her head quickly, glancing at Sam, and smiled waveringly. Rose's gaze turned to her husband, who tried to blink away the tears that had gathered in his eyes. "I love you, my beautiful Rose," he whispered.

"And I love the both of you." She would have said more, but a weary sigh that was not quite a yawn carried away whatever else she had been thinking to say. Her eyes drifted shut once more, and she felt Elanor's fingers lightly draw the coverlet up under her chin.

And, quite suddenly, she realised that she was ready to sleep.


End file.
